by Kim Hughes
‘What a clusterfuck. You realise that Dunston Hall being blown up means there is still an active Russian team out there?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But we always knew that was a risk. Safi wasn’t about to plant his own bomb from the grave, was he? Someone delivered the Viper here and, judging by the CCTV footage we have so far, it wasn’t any Afghan. Someone also wired the Hall to blow.’ Muraski paused for a second. ‘Maybe now they’ve murdered the dissidents at Dunston they’ve got what they wanted. Time for a vacation. Lots of other cathedrals besides Salisbury to see.’
‘You believe that?’ Stock asked. ‘That they’ll just go away?’
‘No. Not the Russians.’ She sounded as if she wanted them to carry on, just so she could have the satisfaction of taking them down. Stock didn’t blame her one bit.
Muraski eventually put the tray down on the coffee table and took a seat opposite him. ‘I think they’re going to cremate our clothes. The medics will be here in a minute to check us out again.’ She pointed to the tray. ‘As I say, they’ve been given the all-clear. We’ve been promised some new kit to wear soon.’
‘As long as it’s not the Arsenal away strip,’ said Stock without thinking. ‘Sorry, that’s not funny.’
One of the phones on the tray vibrated in its plastic bag. ‘I see the directors get a signal,’ said Muraski.
‘It’s Dom’s.’
‘What?’
He pointed at the jiggling handset. ‘That phone. It’s Dom’s. He gave it to me just before he went in the first time. You going to answer it?’
She did so. It was Riley’s friend Scooby. She took a breath and told him the situation.
‘Will he survive?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Oh, Christ, poor old Dom,’ said Scooby
‘Why?’ Kate asked, scared of the reply.
‘Because it might be better if he doesn’t make it.’
EPILOGUE
Six days later
He liked it down there. It was warm and safe. He had come close to the surface on two or three occasions and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. The chill seemed to enter his very bones and there were voices, harsh and metallic. He had allowed himself to sink down once more, back into the depths, where he would be cossetted, as if he was in a second womb.
Then, without asking him, someone had pumped air into whatever he was wearing and he began to float upwards. Nothing he could do halted his progress. He tried to turn to face downwards, so he could use his feet to kick himself back to the deep, but he was locked in position. Riley surfaced into air that stank of chemicals. He felt himself shivering, the waters still around him freezing. He wanted to go back to the warmth. Stop this.
‘Stop this!’
Riley was shocked by the sound of his own voice. It sounded strange and tinny, as if he was listening to a playback on a very cheap tape recorder, like the Philips one his grandparents…
A pain started in his chest as he remembered that Henry had gone.
He opened his eyes and the pain knifed into his brain. He shut them again.
‘We’ll turn the lights down,’ someone said. ‘There.’ Riley waited a few moments and tried once more. Better. Still painful, but bearable. Just.
Riley took stock of his surroundings as his peripheral nerves came online and the phantom waters that had engulfed him receded. He was in a bed, propped up by several fat pillows. Wearing pyjamas. It was daylight outside. His was the only bed in the room. A line for fluid had been run into his hand, fed from a clear plastic bag of what could be saline. And now he was hot, not cold. There was a figure lurking at the foot of his bed, but he couldn’t focus on him or her. He blinked until his vision cleared a little more. It was only then he realised he was surrounded by walls of plastic sheeting.
‘Who are you?’ he asked the hazy shape at the foot of the bed. ‘Why is it so cold in here? Where the fuck am I?’
‘I’ll let your friends answer that.’
‘What friends?’
Riley sensed the man leave and heard a door open and close.
Two more outlines appeared and then moved to either side of the bed. ‘Hello, Dom.’
‘Kate?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you feel?’ It was Oakham.
‘Christ. What the hell…?’ The sentence petered out into a croak. ‘Water?’
‘There’s a tube for that just over your left shoulder.’ He found it and sucked in a mouthful of fluid that tasted like chemicals.
‘What’s going on?’ He waved the arm without tubes to indicate the tent. ‘Am I contagious?’
‘They don’t think so,’ said Muraski. ‘It’s just a precaution.’
Remember that joke the medics used to tell when they talked about biological warfare? This soldier goes to the regimental doctor with weird symptoms and the doctor tells him that he has been exposed to a potentially lethal agent. ‘Don’t worry,’ says the doctor, ‘we’ll put you in quarantine and feed you pizza.’ The soldier says: ‘Pizza? Will that help?’ ‘No,’ says the doc, ‘but it’s the only thing we can fit under the door.’
Yes, just the time for a side-splitter of a joke. It’s all about timing, Nick. ‘How long have I been in here?’
‘Almost a week. You were put into an induced coma,’ said Oakham. ‘The experts thought it best. Give your body a chance to recover. You’re in a specialist facility in Wiltshire. One of several built after the Salisbury poisonings.’
‘I… How are you?’ he asked Muraski.
‘Me? Fine. Well, I had a few days of what I would imagine morning sickness is like. But that passed.’
‘And how am I doing? And no bollocks, eh?’
‘Some scarring on the lungs. Liver damage, but it’s a resilient organ. Maybe a little neural damage, but they won’t know till they’ve done tests.’
‘Have Izzy or Ruby been in?’
‘You’re very lucky to be alive,’ said Oakham, ignoring the question.
‘Have I missed them?’
Oakham carried on like a runaway train. ‘Dom, if you hadn’t shot the sprinkler system on the ceiling in that box and doused yourself with water… well, we wouldn’t be having this little chat. Did you know that formulation of sarin was soluble in water?’
‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I suspected it was some form of sarin. I don’t remember shooting any sprinklers. I recall picking up the gun.’ But at that point it hadn’t been the fire system he had thought about putting a bullet into. ‘Now, listen. Enough of the bloody herogram stuff. What aren’t you telling me?’
Oakham cleared his throat before answering. ‘We believe your grandfather was murdered.’
‘What?’
‘All Six operatives, serving or retired, are given a full autopsy and toxicology report. Even ones as old as Henry. There were traces of a drug in his bloodstream. Plus they found a puncture mark. From a hypodermic. It was hidden beneath one of his nicotine patches. Could easily have been missed.’
‘And my grandmother? She was in the house too.’
‘We think she was a target as well. But she had locked herself in the basement to reboot a monitoring system. Apparently, the door insulated her from all sounds and, when bolted from the inside, was secure enough to resist any intruder.’
‘That’s true. But why? Why murder them?’
‘We think they wanted them out of the way while they prepared the east wing. The Russian’s place. As it happened, the death of Henry alone had the desired effect. People coming and going, nobody monitoring the CCTV at Dunston, Barbara deciding to spend the night in town. It all meant they had free rein.’
‘Prepare it for what?’ Riley asked.
‘It seems that when you flicked the switches on the Viper it triggered an explosion that destroyed the east wing of Dunston Hall and much of the west, I am afraid. As I said, your grandmother wasn’t on the estate, she was long gone. The Russians weren’t so lucky. Kutsik and several of his friends died in the bl
ast.’
‘Christ.’ He waited for more. None came.
Look at the body language, Dom. What aren’t they telling you?
‘And?’ he asked. ‘There’s something else, yes? Why wouldn’t you answer about Ruby and Izzy?’
There was movement and the plastic curtains parted with a tearing, Velcro-parting sound. As she pulled the sections apart, Riley could see Muraski clearly for the first time.
‘Kate, what are you—?’ Oakham began.
‘As you said, it’s just a precaution,’ she snapped. ‘I have to tell him.’
Even before they broke the news, Riley’s stomach felt as if it had just been put into an express lift to hell. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Just after you had been taken to the Whittington, before you were transferred here, Scooby phoned.’ Muraski stepped through the plastic shrouds and took his hand, squeezing it hard, pushing herself through this ordeal. ‘There had been contact between his people and unknown actors in a house in Padstow.’
Riley felt as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. ‘They’re dead?’ he gasped.
She shook her head. Her face was pained, as if each word she uttered physically hurt. ‘One of the PPOs is dead. One seriously injured. They were unarmed. Their assailants were not.’
The express elevator arrived at its destination, right in the heart of that black vortex in his soul: it began to leak its poison into him. ‘And Ruby? Izzy?’
A tear escaped from one eye, trickling down Muraski’s cheek. ‘They’re still missing, Dom. We have no idea where they are.’
Riley ripped the covers back and swung his feet off the bed. He tore off the dressing holding the IV drip in his arm in place and yanked the needle from his arm. When he spoke, it was more an animal growl than human speech. ‘Get me some clothes, you bastards. Now!’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Harvey’s Resort/Viper bomb is based on a device used in a genuine case of blackmail against the casino in Lake Tahoe. The device was as fiendish as described here.
Every ATO knows the note that came with it:
Stern warning to the management and bomb squad:
Do not move or tilt this bomb, because the mechanism controlling the detonators in it will set it off at a movement of less than .01 of the open end of the Richter scale. Don’t try to flood or gas the bomb. Do not try to take it apart. In other words, this bomb is so sensitive that the slightest movement either inside or outside will cause it to explode.
This bomb can never be disarmed or dismantled without causing an explosion. Not even by its creator. Only by proper instruction can it be moved to a safe place where it can be deliberately exploded. Only if you comply with my instructions will you learn how to move the bomb where it can be exploded safely.
If exploded in situ this bomb contains enough TNT to severely damage both Harvey’s and Harrah’s, across the street. That should give you an idea of the amount of TNT contained within this box. It is full of TNT. It is our advice to cordon off a minimum twelve hundred feet radius and remove all people from that area.
To get the information on how to move the device safely you must pay $3 million in unmarked $100 bills. You have 24 hours to comply. Instructions as to delivery are in a separate envelope. Any deviant from these instructions will leave your casino in shambles.
(Extract from blackmail demand delivered with “The Machine” to Harvey’s Casino.)
There are now several recognised ways of rendering that style of bomb safe (none of them involve a rig like Riley’s), but at the request of the MoD and the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorism Command, the various solutions have not been detailed here.
Inverstone Lodge is based on Inverlair Lodge near Inverness, where washed-out SOE agents really were held for the duration of the Second World War. It was the inspiration for Patrick McGoohan’s TV series The Prisoner and, in 1974, original script editor George Markstein wrote a novel called The Cooler, using Inverlair’s wartime incarnation as a real-life version of The Village.
There is strong evidence that Mujahideen fighters from Afghanistan were trained in guerrilla warfare by ex-SAS instructors at secret camps in the UK, organised by MI6. One instructor explained that the three-week training courses involved various military activities, including the ‘planning of operations, the use of explosives and the fire control of heavy weapons – mortars and artillery’, ‘how to attack aircraft and how to lay anti-aircraft ambushes aligned on the centre of a runway’ and mounting ‘anti-armour ambushes’ (see the website markcurtis.info for the full story). However, Operation Homegrown is entirely fictional.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am sat on a flight bound for Washington DC, staring out of the window of this Airbus A330 as Nova Scotia whizzes by beneath me. My mind takes me back to the offices of Simon & Schuster UK, sat there with the team, my agent and a blank notepad. Following the huge success of my biography Painting the Sand, writing fiction was the topic of conversation. It all seemed so surreal and feels like yesterday. That was a year ago, and once again I find myself here, another exciting journey, another book and something I certainly did not expect, but I haven’t got here on my own. Success in this business does not come from the efforts of one, but from the team.
Firstly, Julian Alexander, my agent. Yet again, his calm reassuring advice has guided me through the unfamiliar terrain of fiction writing. His honest approach has been refreshing and couldn’t be more appreciated.
Rob Ryan, a true gentleman and friend, a man that has taught me what it is to think outside of the box when writing. Hours have been spent laughing at some of the weirdest and most wonderful ideas you get when you put two guys from opposite worlds in one room together.
Bethan Jones, my editor, and the team at Simon & Schuster, once again they have made this experience easy and exciting. Their continued efforts and attention to detail has been amazing.
My family and friends, their support has been unquestionable. I am rubbish at comms at the best of times, let alone when writing a book, but they have been there, patient and waiting in the sidelines.
About the Author
Staff Sergeant Kim Hughes GC is a warrant officer in the British Army, an acclaimed public speaker, and a trustee of the Victoria Cross and George Cross Association. He is the most highly decorated bomb-disposal operator serving in the British Army. He was awarded the George Cross in 2009 following a gruelling six-month tour of duty in Afghanistan during which he defused 119 improvised explosive devices, survived numerous Taliban ambushes and endured a close encounter with the Secretary of State for Defence.
SIMON & SCHUSTER
www.simonandschuster.com.au/authors/Kim-Hughes
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Also by Kim Hughes
NON-FICTION
Painting the Sand
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
Copyright © Kim Hughes 2020
The right of Kim Hughes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Cover design by: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
Cover image © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel
A CIP catalogue record for this book is ava
ilable from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8356-0
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8357-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-9715-4
Audio ISBN: 978-1-4711-9173-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
